Bitten by Madness
by Opaque Prision
Summary: Arsenic and Old Lace. When Jonathan thinks about his past, he remembers how he came to be this empty, cold villian and how one person changed everything.


**Happy birthday Josh!**

Cold. Hard. Bleak. These are the things that come to mind at the intolerable walls of my jail cell. In the upcoming day or two, I would be shipped to some far off corner of the world to stand yet _another_ trial.

'_When I get out of here, I will kill Mortimer with much worse than the Melbourne Method. And that spineless drunkard Einstein too'_

Those two idiots landed me in here and I want revenge.

My breathing hitched as I thought of all the different ways to watch them slowly pass into hell, where all traitors go. Gripping the metal bed chains with such a force, the wounds on my knuckles split open and were starting to slowly drip down my hand. I noticed this and as I stared at the open wounds, I thought of every drop of blood as a tear that was to be shed by my oh-so-mighty brother.

'_More scars for the collection'_

My body is a walking story, told in scars and dented skin. I look at them all, traveling up my arm, until my gaze falls on a particularly big one on my shoulder. I stare at it for a moment until I register it in my mind. It is fain. Almost gone, but I still see the two rows of small, thin, white lines.

A bite mark.

Memories start whirling in my head. Memories of a girl with dark eyes, a devious smile and a scar. A scar running from the right side of her temple to her top lip, ripped because of a careless doctor. Obviously we were tolerant of each other.

I met her in a pub. I had just…finished with an associate. Immediately, I had fled. Celebrating, I found myself drinking to the event and I saw her in a shadowy corner, drinking to her misfortunes. At that point, I had a different face, but had only met with Einstein once.

Somewhat intoxicated, I had gone over to her table. To this day, I still don't know why I started talking to her. I found out the hard way she was a brilliant pick-pocket and had returned every night to try and find her. And my wallet.

When she finally did come, I cut a deal with her. She give me what's mine and use her skills to my advantage, and she keeps her life. After a yes and a few rounds, we cemented the partnership in the only way we knew how. The bite mark's from that night.

She was useful and we lived together for a time. Out shared apartment was paid full by her pickings and with some of my backhanded business, we lived quite comfortably.

By day, we were an uncatchable criminal pair in the city, by night we were each others only relief from a world that gloried in our misery. My face was never ugly. Her scar was never revolting. And we both gave into out most masochistic instincts and became addicted to the pain and freedom we had given to each other. Blood was frequently seen, but no objection was said.

We never loved. Love was something neither of us wanted, nor did we know. In fact, one of us was usually beaten before or after our wants had been sated.

It went on and on, but one day she had gone too far. She broke our deal, by rejecting everything we had done and tried to walk out. At that point, I would've let her.

Then she tried to call the cops.

I remember grabbing and throwing her across the room. Slamming the door shut, I crossed the room. I straddled her hips and pulling out my switch-blade, running the tip down that scar that had branded itself in my memory. That night I created the most devastating of tortures and sin, a king Melbourne Method. I had given into the most sadistic of fantasies.

The last thing I whispered into her ear was,

"Blame yourself. I was bitten and turned mad"

The next morning I left and found a new hovel and more clientele. I had forgotten completely of her in what seemed like no time at all.

Coming back to the present, I realize that's where I owe the debt of having the most inconceivable and blood-lusting murder in history.

I lay back on my bed and have a fresh wave of blood-lust renewed in me and start feeling anxious at the thought of Mortimer's blood trickling down my fingers and pooling at my feet. And as I fall into a dream of stark black and red, a thought enters my head and I smirk the evilest and most content of smirks.

The score is thirteen to twelve.


End file.
